Nothing Was Going Right
by Nicole Harpe
Summary: He was really mad and didn’t know any other way to handle it. Rated M for language. Author’s Note: Written under the influence of viral meningitis which explains some of this.


**Nothing Was Going Right**

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This Quantum Leap™ story utilizes characters that are copyright © by Bellasarius Productions and Universal Studios. No infringement on their respective copyrights are intended by the author in any way, shape or form. This fan fiction story is written solely for the entertainment of the readers and are not for profit. All fiction, plots, and original characters are the sole creations of the author

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**Nothing Was Going Right****  
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Nothing was going right, God damn it. It was the same shit over and over again and he didn't care about fixing it. He just wanted his anger to fume until he could break something and blame it on fury instead of stupidity. No one got in his way when his temper got this unstable. It scared all of them to the point where all they could do was scurry out of his sight and hope that they weren't in the path of the fallout.

There wasn't anything he could do about the idiocy making him mad, so he vented the way he always did. The handlink flew across the Control Console. His legs carried him faster than nearly anyone else in the compound and he ran into the parking garage. A second later, he ripped the protective cover off his Ducati, threw his helmet on and tore off into the desert at speeds that even frightened the Marines standing guard at the project entrance.

Only ten o'clock in the morning and nothing was going right. He flew into the mountains recklessly, hating everybody and most especially himself. He didn't get this close to the edge often, but when he did, it was never to anyone's advantage, least of all his. Every bit of self-doubt weighed on him in ways he thought he'd gotten past, but never could.

So what if he'd been riding well over an hour? Even at the speed he was trucking he couldn't be more than 50 miles from the Project. A few miles of that were vertical. Riding into the mountains was the ultimate "fuck you" drive. He didn't know another biker who could travel into the mountains as far as he did, at least none in his current circle. But there was an end to how high the bike would get him and he wanted even more elevation. He wanted air that thinned out to the point his lungs felt like bursting.

Nothing was going right and he got caught in a place where parking the bike secretly, out of sight of joyriding idiots, was impossible. No niche presented itself. No overhang offered shelter, but why should that be working out for him? Nothing else was. Hell, if anyone was stupid enough to follow him to the ledge he got to, then let him try to get back down. He'd find the jerk splattered down the mountain somewhere with the big hulking bike smashing whatever was left of the body. Would serve the bastard right.

Somehow he managed to be wearing footwear that had some traction. Good thing, too. The peak he set his eyes on would require a little effort and his typical slick-soled shoes wouldn't get him there. He slid his hand up the wall in front of him and found a handhold. His other hand slid a little higher and scaling up the red rock began. A half hour more of climbing found him on top of the world, at least on top of that particular mountain ridge. There was no climbing higher, no where else to run. It pissed him off. Now he had to deal with his anger and he didn't want to. Why would he? Nothing was going to change things. Shit, nothing was going right.

The sun boiled down. Talk about nothing going right - it was about 110 degrees and so what if it was a dry heat. It was 110 damn degrees. There was nowhere to hide from the intensely burning rays and he almost didn't care. He'd been sunburned before, lots of times and each time it made his wife mad at him. She worried about things like skin cancer, but he didn't care about that. He'd been burned so badly so often that if cancer wanted him, he wasn't going to be able to stop it now. Feeling the heat do its work on his skin appealed to him. Maybe the heat could burn off his mad. Something had to.

With defiance and a huge chunk of idiocy, he pulled off his shirt and tied it around his waist. His back felt the frying rays and the hell of a past life raised an ugly head just to torment him. Images filled his mind - the desolate prison holes that a chosen few American MIAs got to experience, the clearing where his naked body would get staked out for the jungle sun to torment, the sun and the ants. Of course, the tablespoon of honey they smeared over his face helped the bugs gnaw little holes on his nose, his eyelids, his lips, inside his mouth. The honey on his other body parts was another issue altogether. Better to concentrate on the burning streaks of sun pounding down.

He looked forward to the pain. Physical pain was real. It had a source. You could see the damage and if you were lucky, you could make it better. The sun offered him something the troubles at the Project couldn't. This pain was tangible and he was doing it to himself. Somehow it seemed better than pain inflicted by others. Maybe it was worse. Who the hell knew?

He sat there, crossed-legged, his head buried in his hands. There were no tears. They were useless, serving no purpose other than to validate that the world held you between its thumb and index finger, ready to roll you into oblivion. Well, fuck the world. His eyes wouldn't give in. All he wanted was to feel that burning on his back and he did.

During his first hour there, the quiet was intense. At high noon, not even birds bothered with this bit of mountain. Nothing was there. All he heard was the increasingly loud sizzle of the skin on his back. He felt the burn and thanked nature for its cruelty. Pain wasn't always caused by people and he wanted that confirmed. It was stupid, this offering of his body to more torture. His wife was going to kill him. She'd keep her rage under control when she tended to the burns, but in a few days, once the fevers were gone, once the blistering was contained, she'd light into him, but even that didn't convince him to put his shirt back on. This was a pain he wanted. This was one he could understand.

So the sun began to lower a bit. He'd fallen asleep, exhausted from the day's intense emotions. The regrets began. In just a couple of hours, the intensely hot shafts of sun managed to scald his neck, shoulders, and back. If he didn't know that before he put his shirt on, he sure understood when the silk cloth touched his skin. Everything seemed to make sense before, but now he just had more anger. Now, he had his own stupidity to argue with. That was easier though. It was what he sought. He was used to being mad at himself. Putting it all on himself just made it easier is some sick psychotic way.

Damn, the shrink was going to bug the hell out of him again. She was a pain in the butt and he wasn't going to get into any mind games with her. Shit, half the people he knew thought he was out of his mind anyhow. There was no need to certify it.

Sitting like a pretzel for a couple of hours did nothing for his muscles and that, coupled with annoyingly increasing age, made standing up harder than he wanted to admit to, but he prided his fitness and despite his unwillingness to stop smoking cigars, he was healthier than most men his age. In fact, he looked a decade younger, but he attributed that to good genes since the life he led would add years to most faces.

Afternoon drifted in. There was still a lot of light which was a good thing. He still had to climb back down to his Ducati and get home. Without giving it thought, he started in on a series of stretches like the ones he used years earlier after he'd been left hanging in the sun by one arm for a few days. A couple of minutes testing every appendage had him feeling sharp stabs, but he got his legs used to moving again. Even if they didn't move well, they did move.

A slight shudder of fever heard him swearing at himself. If he was looking to internalize his anger, then he'd achieved his goal. Per usual, he'd gone too far. His desire to channel his hurt turned on him. He only wanted the burn, but he could feel his body temperature elevate. What else was new? Nothing was going right.

He got back to the edge of the slab he climbed up. From top down, it looked like a lot harder climb. Good reason for that - it was, though not impossible and he charted a path before lowering himself over the side. Three-quarters of the way down, his left foot dropped to a foothold. It was supposed to be there. He'd spotted it a few minutes earlier, but he couldn't find it. One last stretch caught the inside edge with just a bit of shoe. The gamble that he'd enough of a hold didn't pay off. The toe of his shoe slipped, pulling the left side of his body out of position and he slid down the rest of the rock. Bits of his face decorated a slew of granite before he hit the ground. The injury wasn't serious, but he scraped the top layer or two off his jaw and cheek and threw a pebble into his eye. Again, not serious. Just another piece of shit to deal with.

Thirst started to hit him. He hadn't had anything since morning and it was approaching five o'clock. Nothing like a day in the sun to pull all the fluid from a person. His bike was still there, his helmet still hanging from the handlebars. The stretching and the climb did a lot for his muscles, but not much for his burned skin. The sun pulled elasticity from it and rather than being supple, it cracked open small bleeding wounds. He deserved it all. Big fucking deal. Wasn't the first time his skin split and spilled blood.

Unlike most macho lunatics, he was bright enough to wear a bike helmet. This time, it was impossible. The weight of the helmet on his burned neck sent shivers down his spine. He'd never be able to ride the bike if the helmet sat on his neck. Strapping it to the seat behind him, he opted for getting home rather than protecting his brain. A check of the gauges had him sighing in relief. Exactly when he filled the tank eluded him, but he had enough to get to his house. The machine started with a roar of power.

He closed his eyes for a moment, wanting to get a feel for where his head was. The anger? Not quite as big, but still there. In time he'd figure out how to handle the problem sensibly, but he didn't really care. No, that was a lie. He cared too much, but this trip to "Pain Central" was meant to help him forget how much he cared. The physical pain? Well, that would be around for a few weeks, which was good. The burn was bad. He didn't have to see his back to know the feel of blisters. Some already opened. Counting on this pain to focus him away from his anger, he sadly understood what cutters got out of flaying their skin. Understandable pain caused by something specific was easier for him than the inexplicable pain of life. Made deplorable sense to him, sick as that was. It was kind of like the torture in Vietnam. Pain helped in a weird way. Whips and chains pulled attention away from his loneliness and desperation.

Enough of that. Time to get home and find his wife, someone who would mourn his hurts, tend his sadness, love him, nurture him. She wouldn't ask what was wrong. She would just accept that something was and let that suffice, at least for the night. Maybe this time he could give himself permission to cry instead of letting another little piece of him die. Yeah, like that would be happening. Fuck, nothing was going right.

**The End**

**© August 2006**


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